


This Battered Heart (Give Us This Second Chance)

by Saral_Hylor



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Clint Barton Angst, Coulson Lives, Gift Fic, I angsted all over Christmas, I'm not sorry, M/M, Natasha has had enough of both of their angst, Phil Coulson Angst, Post Avengers Movie, it gets better though, past Clint/Phil relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saral_Hylor/pseuds/Saral_Hylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only people with Level 7 clearance or higher were told that Agent Phil Coulson was alive. </p>
<p>Agent Clint Barton did not have Level 7 clearance. </p>
<p>But since the whole incident with Loki, and the trip to Tahiti (it's a magical place) Agent Phil Coulson hasn't been the best at following S.H.I.E.L.D's rules. </p>
<p>Especially at Christmas time. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>For <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/3White_Mage3/pseuds/3White_Mage3">3White_Mage3</a> Merry Christmas gorgeous!</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Battered Heart (Give Us This Second Chance)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [3White_Mage3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3White_Mage3/gifts).



> Thanks to [jujitsuelf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jujitsuelf/pseuds/jujitsuelf) for the beta work and hand holding.  
> Thanks also to [quandong_crumble](http://archiveofourown.org/users/quandong_crumble/pseuds/quandong_crumble) for the support along the way. 
> 
>  
> 
> A little bit of background, jujitsuelf, 3white_mage3 and I decided to write and gift each other fics for Xmas, since we live in various (opposite) corners of the world, virtual gifts made sense. They had to be between 100-3000 words long, and could be prompted or not. I was given free rein over what I wrote, and I hope they don't regret that decision. 
> 
>  
> 
> This is for [3White_Mage3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/3White_Mage3/pseuds/3White_Mage3) because awesome people deserve fic presents on Christmas.   
> Thanks, Mr Mage, for all the love and support this year! Just want to say thanks, and love you, and here's to more emails, fics and good times in 2014 and beyond!

“He misses you, you know.”

“I know.”

“Then why don’t you put him out of his misery and go see him.”

“Agent Barton doesn’t have level seven clearance, Agent May, you know the rules.” 

“Sir, if I might say, you haven’t been the best at following the rules since you started leading this team. You’ve changed.”

“For better or worse?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“What if it’s for worse? What if he doesn’t forgive me?”

“I don’t feel I know him well enough to guess as to how Agent Barton will react. But I know you well enough to know, that if the situations were reversed, you’d give anything for the truth.”

 

////

 

Agent Phil Coulson wasn’t sure when a simple door had ever become so intimidating. He’d faced down a crazed alien who thought he was a god, alone, and admittedly that had ended badly, but a simple piece of wood had him floored. Though, knowing Clint, that aforementioned piece of wood was probably far from innocent. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

There were sounds of someone approaching the door, lock sliding back, and then the door handle twisted. That dreaded piece of wood was suddenly his only piece of protection, between him and the inevitable disaster. It probably wasn’t the best time for it, Christmas Eve, but May was right, he’d gotten worse at following the rules.

The door opened, and Clint stood there, looking far better than he remembered. The heat from inside the room crept out into the hallway, inviting, a complete juxtaposition to the look on the archer’s face. A mix of shocked disbelief, pain, horror and disgust. They stared at each other for a moment; he wanted to say something, but he’d never felt so incompetent in his life, no words came, only the desperate need to reach out for Clint, but his hands stayed immobile at his sides.

Clint paled, swaying ever so slightly, knuckles white around the edge of the door. “It’s Christmas. Not fucking Halloween.”

The door was slammed in his face before he could reply, cutting off the warmth and leaving only the cold of winter.

 

////

 

“Who was that?”

Clint flinched, even though he knew that Nat was in his apartment, he knew she was there, and knew she’d ask about the knock on the door. But he was rattled. It felt like someone had taken his whole world and shaken it all up around him. There was no way that Phil Coulson was standing outside his door. It just wasn’t possible. They’d buried him, had a funeral, there’d been a coffin and a service. Fury and Stark had both spoken. He hadn’t been able to, couldn’t think of words to say, couldn’t read the words they gave him. Besides, no one wanted to hear him talk about all the lost agents from the attack he’d orchestrated.

He hastily slid the lock back into place, turning too quickly to face Nat, smiling too tight, and of course she knew that something was wrong. “Carollers.”

It didn’t work. Nat pushed past him, sliding the deadbolt back and throwing the door open again. She swore sharply in Russian, but didn’t close the door. Phil still stood there, facing the door, as though he expected it to open again. No, hoped it would open again, because Clint knew that expression, that expression that barely dared to be hopeful.

“I know this is a shock, and inconsiderate timing, and for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” Phil started, hands clasped in front of him, looking as calm and professional as ever. “I can explain as much as I can, but inside might be better.”

Nat stepped back, shouldering Clint until he backed up as well, and he felt a stab of betrayal as she let Phil walk in, because there was still no way that it was Phil. Not  _his_  Phil. They’d buried him.

Phil stepped inside, out of the way, so Nat could close the door, and then she was the one directing him through to the living room, and offering coffee and disappearing into the kitchen, because Clint was still by the front door, motionless, useless. He felt like he’d lost control of his body again, could almost see the fringes of blue around the edges of his vision, even though it wasn’t, couldn’t possibly, be Loki. Thor would have said something.

He forced himself away from the door, taking cautious steps towards the living room, hand itching for his bow, a gun, a knife, anything. The very instinct, the need for a weapon made him feel sick, because it was Phil Coulson sitting on his couch, not a threat. Nat wouldn’t have let him in if he was a threat. But it didn’t stop him from wanting to be armed in some way.

“You look tired, Agent Barton, you haven’t been taking care of yourself.” Phil didn’t turn around from where he sat on the couch, but he knew when Clint had finally entered the room.

He didn’t know what to say to that. Sleep was impossible, had been since the Chautari invasion. Since Loki. Since the funeral. Since there was no one there any more to drive the nightmares away he stopped sleeping. But he couldn’t say that. “You look alive.”

Phil’s shoulders tensed, and he turned ever so slightly so that he could see the sniper. “I wanted to tell you. I wanted Fury to tell you.”

“Then why didn’t you?” He couldn’t help the words tumbling out, not nervous, or confused any more, just angry. Hurt. They’d known all along that Phil was alive. Fury had known, and told nobody. “He spoke at your funeral! We buried you!”

He was the image of calm, every bit the calm “You didn’t have clearance.”

“Clearance?! Is SHIELD so fucked up that they’ll lie to people because they don’t have clearance?” It was a stupid question, he knew that, because of course SHIELD lied. “You were our handler, our friend, my, my fucking lover, and they let me bury you!”

“I’m sorry for that. I wasn’t aware of the funeral until after it happened, and Fury insisted that it was the way things had to be.” Phil’s face pinched, creases across his brow and the almost permanent smile lines near his eyes fading away.

He could have kept attacking, kept being pissed off about not knowing, but it wasn’t going to do him any good. He knew what SHIELD was like, with their secrets and their rules. “Why did you do it? You had to know it was suicide. You aren’t a field agent.”

“You were compromised.”

Three words like it explained everything. And Clint knew, that in a way, it did. He was compromised, Loki had him in his grasp, so, of course Phil would go after Loki. He’d have gone after Loki anyway, because it was the right thing to do. But he went in reckless, because Clint might as well have been dead.

“So you went and got yourself killed?!” It wasn’t fair, but the words were already spilling out of his mouth. It was his fault, and nothing would ever change that. “Last I checked, sir, standard procedure was to take out the compromised agent, via lethal means if necessary. Not go and get yourself stabbed. That was a real dick move. The dickiest move in the history of dick moves.”

“Maybe not one of my finer moments.” The creases were back beside his eyes, but the smile he gave the archer was full of melancholy, regret.

Clint couldn’t help the bitter snort, finally finding it in him to make it past the edge of the couch so that they could face each other. “Finer moments? You took on an alien god with a gun.”

“It was a really big gun.”

There it was the smug smile that used to do all sorts of things to him, still would have if he could focus on anything other than the confusion and anger for more than a moment. “And Loki is a really big pain in the arse. You didn’t even know what it did.”

“I was just doing my job.” Phil’s smile slipped, expression going hard.

“No, your job was being a handler, not a field agent. You did tactical stuff, you’re supposed to stay behind the scenes, at the other end of the radio, out of harm’s way. I’m the one who is supposed to be impulsive and make the dick moves, so you’ll torture me with mountains of paperwork. You’re not supposed to get hurt. That’s my job.” He heard his voice waver, felt inexplicably tired, worn out. He usually tried to avoid all the complicated emotions, simply because they did wear him down.

Before Phil could respond, Nat appeared back in the room, setting down two mugs of coffee before slipping back into the kitchen again, only to return a moment later with a third mug. She didn’t say anything, just perched on the armrest of the couch, one foot on the seat, her intense gaze flickering between the two men.

Clint couldn’t stand the silence, but he couldn’t find the words to say, staring instead at the shabby excuse of a Christmas tree that he and Nat had decorated with generic shop bought decorations. He could vaguely remember a Christmas tree covered in poorly child made decorations from somewhere in his past, but he tried not to think about those times. Especially not at Christmas.

He couldn’t do this. He could sit for hours upon hours waiting for the perfect shot. He could throw himself off of buildings, take on aliens and befriend former Russian spies. He could follow his handler everywhere, obey every direction and trust that he was being looked after. But he couldn’t sit in his living room and drink coffee as though he hadn’t buried Phil a few months ago. As though he hadn’t lost everything all over again. Only for it to come back and act like nothing had ever happened.

“I think you should go.”

The words shocked him as much as they shocked Nat and Phil. Clint found himself at the receiving end of a hurt look and a look that quite clearly told him he was the world’s biggest idiot. And maybe he was, but maybe it was okay to feel like he couldn’t handle seeing his until recently believed dead handler and lover on Christmas Eve. Surely that was a normal response.

“I can’t do this, just sit and pretend everything is okay, and drink coffee. Hell, I think vodka would be better suited right now, Tash, why didn’t you grab that.” He deliberately tried not to look at Phil’s hurt expression, but the puke green carpet was hardly a more appealing option.

Phil cleared his throat, a small, painful noise, before standing up. “Yes, well, I guess some things are even too weird for our lives. I’m sorry, Clint, I really am. I should have got in contact sooner, should have done it another way. Sorry. If you decide you do want to talk about this, I’m sure you’ll get in contact.”

Nat didn’t protest, but Clint knew he’d cop it as soon as it was just them. He couldn’t focus on that though. All he could think about as he watched Phil head back towards the door was how much he wanted to run after him, slam him up against the wall and kiss him, because it had been too long, and he missed him and should have been grateful that he wasn’t dead. But he couldn’t do that. If he did move, it’d probably be out the window and straight up to the roof.

The door closed with a resounding click, but it didn’t make it any easier to breathe, if anything, the ache in his chest that had been there ever since Nat cognitively recalibrated him, only got worse.

It took Natasha less than two seconds after the door closed to cross the room and smack Clint across the back of the head, swearing at him in Russian.

He flinched, ducked, and swivelled to catch her wrist as she went to hit him again. “What?”

Nat shook her head slowly, the disappointment in the gesture enough to make him feel like a little kid getting told off again, despite being older than her.

“You shouldn’t have sent him away. I get that you’re angry, and upset, and it’s a huge shock. I get it. He meant a lot to me too, means a lot.” The disappointment shifted to sadness. It was rare to see her display her true emotions, to admit them out loud. “Don’t take it out on him, it was Fury’s call, and he won’t get away with keeping these secrets.”

“He should have told me.” He wasn’t even sure who he meant, but he loosened his grip on Nat’s wrist, letting her slide their hands together and entwine their fingers. “We buried him Tash. Had a funeral and everything.”

“Our clearance hasn’t changed, you know that. We still aren’t supposed to know that Phil is alive.” Nat gave the words a moment to sink in. “He broke the rules by coming to see you. He still loves you.”

He felt his breath jam in his throat, a burning behind his eyes, and it was a struggle to push it all back down. He hated crying, even in front of Nat, who’d seen him in all sorts of states, and was there to pick him up and care for him after the funeral. There with the soft murmured Russian lullabies that he couldn’t understand but chased away the nightmares all the same.

“You lost him once, Clint. Not many people get a second chance. You gave me one. I’m not going to let you let this slip past. You both deserve better than that.” She leaned closer, pressing her lips to his cheek, before backing off, dropping his hand from her grip. “Fix it.”

 

////

 

Phil left. It was all he could do. Clint had asked him too, and he’d gone there knowing that things might have ended that way. He should have expected it really. They’d all been told he was dead. They’d buried him, and mourned him and had been given several months to get used to the idea of him not being there. It was bound to be a shock, just knocking on the door like that. He was lucky that he had managed to walk away at all. 

It’d been good to see Clint again, in person, not through surveillance footage, even though, with a single glance, he could tell that the archer wasn’t doing as well as he could have been. At least Natasha was there with him, and he wasn’t going to be alone at Christmas. Phil tried not to think about their last Christmas, and the few hours they’d managed to spend together while on a mission. It hurt too much to think about what was lost, but he was a practical man, he could accept that sometimes things had to move on. 

There was a piece of paper tucked under the wind-shield wiper of his car, a note, he discovered when he retrieved it, and it really shouldn’t have surprised him who had put it there. Agent Barton was one of the best, after all, and he wouldn’t have been hampered by conventional things such as stairs. 

Phil carefully unfolded the note, eyes darting over the messy scrawl that he’d become so familiar with over the years. He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. Maybe Agent May had been right, Clint had deserved the truth. 

_phil._

_apparently i ~~’m an idiot~~  this is the season for giving_

_guess someone decided to give us a second chance_

_l ~~ove~~  clint_

_ps. your coffee is getting cold._

 

 


End file.
